Page 33 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)
Ramon Vasquez
The precinct was quieter than usual for the graveyard shift—just the occasional drone of the overhead intercom and sporadic ring of an administrative staff member’s desk phone.
Vasquez lingered in the breakroom longer than he should’ve. He was supposed to be at the front desk by now, but if anyone asked, he’d say he was waiting on fresh coffee.
He sat slouched in a plastic chair, scrolling through yet another dating app. This one seemed a bit more promising—real connections, no algorithms—whatever the fuck that meant.
He’d chosen a different tactic this time. He’d deleted the shirtless gym picture, choosing a close-up of his face, trimmed beard, fresh haircut, and a simple tilt of his lips.
He even changed up his bio.
Simple guy. Works nights. Just looking for someone real and kind .
Sounded better than dishonorable, jilted cop looking for someone who won’t hold all his fuckups against him .
After several days, there were still no pings.
He flicked through profiles anyway, double-tapping just to feel as if he was doing something, before he ended up clicking on the testimonials.
Every smiling couple posing in the photos felt like a punch to the solar plexus. People holding hands, arms looped around shoulders, tagged locations of rooftop bars, happy hour spots, and intimate bonfires during sunsets on the goddamn beach.
Vasquez didn’t even need sex. He just wanted a fucking hand on his back. Someone to lean against, to comfort him after a shitty visit with his dad, to confide in. Someone to convince him he wasn’t a disgrace because men like that didn’t get goodnight kisses.
He logged out of the app and stared through the glass walls at the bullpen.
He was breathing easier that there was no further chatter about God’s foiled warrant or whispers of leaks.
He still didn’t know if Fox had found anything yet. The thought made his stomach turn. He’d thought Fox was long gone, living his cowboy fantasy somewhere with that Wrangler-wearing hunk of his.
But apparently, the bastard was still tied to Hart’s department.
Vasquez rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept since the night of the search. The moment he’d gotten confirmation of the deposit for the information he’d given, a cold shiver of dread had settled in his bones and refused to leave.
The international bank account was under a name that couldn’t be traced back to him, and the money had been washed clean. But for him, it still reeked. It smelled like regret and bad karma.
The door to the breakroom opened behind him and a faint scent of spices and cooked meat filled the air before a voice followed it.
“Evening officer?”
Vasquez didn’t respond.
“Mind if I use the microwave?”
“Be my guest. It’s not mine.”
He kept scrolling, expecting whoever was talking to be gone in a minute. But instead, the microwave beeped, and a man sat across from him with a Tupperware container and a warm smile.
“I’m Kiran Joshi. I think we’ve crossed paths coming and going once or twice, yeah?”
Joshi .
It didn’t ring a bell.
Vasquez looked up briefly and did a double-take.
Shiny, ink-black hair, dark skin with a warm golden undertone, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes. A blue suit and tie, but not stiff. He had a presence, like someone who didn’t need to flex to make his authority known.
Detective. He would’ve guessed something high up, like homicide or special victims.
“Maybe once.” Vasquez shrugged, dropping his gaze back to his phone.
Joshi chuckled softly, unwrapping a piece of soft-looking bread and scooping a bite of thick stew into his mouth.
The scent made Vasquez’s stomach tighten.
“What is that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“Butter chicken. Nothing fancy, but it hits the spot after midnight. It’s my mom’s recipe. I’ve been trying to cook more. It’s either that or frozen burritos and pizza, and I like my arteries. At forty-seven, I’m not getting any younger.”
“Smells good,” Vasquez admitted, setting his phone down. “I forgot what real food smells like.”
“You’re a takeout kinda guy, huh?” Joshi smiled.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Not really. He could just afford the vending machine food. But he’d never admit that.
“I live alone, and cooking gives me something to do. Y’know?”
Vasquez nodded, watching the steam rise from the curry. “I get that.”
“I bring leftovers sometimes. No one ever asks for any though. Most people get weird when they see Indian food. They say it’s too ‘fragrant…or spicy.’”
Joshi smiled as though he didn’t care, but there was a flicker of solemnity in his tone.
“I think it smells incredible,” Vasquez said without thinking. “Better than anything I’ve had in weeks.”
He wasn’t sure what shifted, maybe it was the way Joshi looked at him, steady and unflinching, or maybe it was the constant anger and disappointment in his chest giving way to something…softer.
“Thanks,” Joshi said quietly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I’ve got extra if you’re hungry.”
Vasquez hesitated. He shouldn’t. This guy was higher in rank than him…could be risky. Besides, detectives didn’t give much thought to desk jockeys in ugly, stiff polyester.
Especially ones with offshore secrets.
But right now, he didn’t feel like a desk jockey. He felt like a man watching the possibility of warmth slide across the table.
“Sure, I’ll give it a try,” he said after a beat.
Joshi pushed the container toward him. “Careful, it’s spicy.”
“I can handle heat,” he murmured, and for the first time in years , he smiled.